


I Might Be in Love but You're So Beautiful

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, confession of a shopaholic au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 14:44:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: The renowned financial journalist is in for a suit fitting. But all he can think of is holding Sansa's hand. It's difficult to focus on anything when his employee is the vivacious Stark.





	I Might Be in Love but You're So Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlightsansa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightsansa/gifts).



> putri made me watch this move and this scene struck me the most a jonsa. it's my first time writing based on a movie so forgive me if it doesn't do the movie or the pair any justice. i'm open to reactions !!!

The shop was of standard design. Jon follows Sansa around with a diligence akin to his dog, Ghost when Jon carries his bowl of food around. Hands in his pocket, he listens, with agonizing terror, that his lovely employee and the saleswoman are talking about him wearing a pink shirt. That, Jon decides with an internalized sigh, is the last strike.

“What I really need is, uh, tuxedo. Say three buttons, size 48 regular. A white dress shirt and I’ll try the blue one as well.” Jon itemized as he gestures to the article clothing and wanders about the room. He doesn’t take note of the woman taking down notes or how Sansa remained where she stood. “And a black Vernice shoe in a size ten. And two Advil, please.”

“Yes sir.” The saleswoman speaks to another suited man in hushed tones.

He settles to sit on one of the chairs and waits for his requests to be delivered.

“You speak Prada?” Sansa blurts out, staring at him wide eyed as though his little speech was something worth being impressed over.

Jon rolls his shoulders, “Occasionally.” He replies.

She walks closer, the heels clicking, still wearing that adorably puzzled expression on her face. “But if you know how to dress well, why do you come to the office looking like…?” The redhead trails off, her hand vaguely gesturing to him from head to toe and the confusion scrunched her nose even more.

Jon wants to laugh or maybe pinch her cheek. _Stop that._ He internally scolds himself.

“I don’t want to be labelled by clothes or label or family.” He answers, smiling kindly at the woman who gives him the requested clothes. This is it; she’ll understand the subtle hint of who he really is. That opening about this topic has never been one of his favourite things to even speak of.  This conversation will be dropped and he can try the clothes on in peace.

But since Sansa walked through his office for an interview, Jon has forgotten what a peaceful day feels like.

“Why would you be defined by family?” Sansa wonders. When had her cerulean blue eyes gotten so big? They were downright mesmerising and he could drown in the depths and beauty of them.

 _Christ._ He laments over his pathetic daydreaming. The more they spend time, the more he gets that fluttery feeling somewhere in his chest, or how he almost always forgets what to say next in their conversation because Sansa’s attention towards him is so undivided.

Like now, she stands still as though she won’t move until he talks. Her face is open and curious as though she’s genuinely interested in him and not politely talking about himself because he’s her boss. _I’m the boss here. I’m in charge._ He glances at her, expectant and he’s probably hallucinating but is her full pink lips formed into a _pout? Seven save me._

“My father is Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon reveals with much difficulty. Glancing at her, she remains immobile, silently encouraging him to say more.

“Excuse me but did you say your father is Rhaegar Targaryen?” The blonde saleswoman interrupted.

Jon knows that starry eyed look anywhere. For years, he had to politely endure talks of admiration of his father, praises like songs and poems for the blond who wouldn’t deign himself low enough to know their names.

“Did he tell you we dressed him for the Met Gala? Oh he just looked so incredible.” She went on, oblivious to the discomfort of the pair. “Anyways congratulations on having such a wonderful father.” She moved away when another costumer walked inside the shop.

Sansa had the impression of apologizing but Jon smiles and waves his hand. He didn’t need her to feel sorry for him or for how she didn’t know. _Sometimes I also wished I never knew he was my dad._ He buttons the shirt and decided to talk more. An action he wouldn’t normally execute with anyone else outside of his friends and family.

“My parents are divorced. I grew up in England with my mum. She’s great; very down to earth and absolutely different from my father.” A small fond smile passes through his lips at the thought of the small brunette, by their townhouse. At this time of the day, he can picture her watering the little garden by the windows with a song on her lips and the kettle boiling for tea.

He clears his throat. “Anyways, he wasn’t interested until I was an adult. At which point it was assumed I’d just fall into line.” He scoffs, finding it ridiculous how this man’s pride blinds him to reason sometimes. How mum endured him for such a time, he will never know.

“For the throne?” Sansa jests, her lips of young strawberries tilted upwards.

Jon laughs. “Uh, no, for the um, family business.” He corrected her, his hands automatically twisting the tie around his neck.

“What’s the business?” Sansa wonders, turning away from him and fetching the jacket that came along with the dress shirts.

“Owning stuff, real estate business, um internet businesses.” Jon lists off, facing the mirror and open his arms when Sannsa offers the jacket. “Cable companies….”

They both laugh as she struggles to fit the sleeve to his arm.

“Sorry, sorry…” Sansa mumbles with a faint blush on her cheeks. It was a glorious distraction, even if it lasted for an entire three seconds.

“I chose to succeed on my own terms. Not to my controlling family.” Jon declares, fixing the jacket and facing her. It’s a little _too_ close if an HR person were to spot them like this, like they have in numerous occasions, their shoes just brushing at the line drawn on sand.

“Do you have a take on everything in life?” He wonders, adjusting himself in the suit.

“Yes!” They answer in unison and Jon likes to think his tone wasn’t _that_ fond and it wasn’t because of Sansa’s soft grin aimed towards him.

“Well what would your take be on… me?” Jon regrets this question. 

 _Why would you even care what she thinks?_   _No one in our world knows of her._ Father’s wormy voice taunted in the back of his mind and he nearly rolled his eyes.

 _Her thoughts of me matter because… I value what she thinks of me._ He counters in his mind.

“Go on,” Jon encourages, spreading his feet like he’s preparing for a battle. “What would the Girl in the Green Scarf’s take be on Jon Targaryen?”

Sansa leans back on her seat, her gaze lazily studying him. He tries to not let it excite him too much. After all, these slacks are pretty fitted and he wouldn’t want to be that obvious. “As an investment you pretty much suck.” She answers in an honest tone.

Jon blinks, his posture slackens and he stares her in puzzlement. _Great she thinks I suck. Nice job Jon, you idiot._ “What?” He dumbly responds to her deduction.

“You’re a workaholic. You put in all these hours but you never reap the rewards. It goes to someone else’s pocket but you’re a great editor.” Sansa elaborates. The way her expression shines of slight awe; Jon will never tire in inspiring that fond look from her. And he doesn’t even know _why_ she keeps looking at him like he deserves such a starry eyed stare!

“And now… you look like one.” Sansa emphasizes by smoothening her hands on his shoulders.

They were at this close distance once more, a tug and pull from strings he can’t see but he can _feel_ how tantalizing it is to be near her. He could count the freckles on her cheeks, her eyes were unfairly lovelier and the sky’s blue beauty is lost to him in this moment. Her bowed pink mouth is a temptation and a sight to behold. 

 _She’s so beautiful and weird and so captivating,_ Jon thinks and the world narrows down to him and her. “It isn’t always work and play for me, Ms. Stark, if you must know.” He playfully tells her.

Sansa’s reaction of bewilderment makes him laugh.

 


End file.
